Blood for Blood
by Llamasrus
Summary: John Watson is looking for a new flatmate in his recent return from Afghanistan, but when his friend Mike Stamford introduces him to an interesting man named Sherlock Holmes, John finds himself plunged into a supernatural novel come to life. But is this new life with Sherlock All going to be mystery and horror, or will it blossom into something more?
1. Chapter 1

**_Prologue_**

Just as the sun was beginning to set in the icy winter sky on a cold Friday night, John Watson found himself walking down the street by his lonesome. He'd gotten away from most of the clubs, bars, and rowdy pubs and was walking down alleyways where there happened to be a couple of people huddled together and muttering quietly to each other, and even the occasional drunk talking to himself...or a wall. He shouldn't have been walking alone, especially since it was so late, he was so tired, and nearly anyone posed a threat.

Yet as John walked on, he began to sense he wasn't alone. He glanced behind him, but all that was there was a can rolling into the middle of the alley, and so he walked on. However the feeling of being followed remained and John was becoming uneasy. _You're a soldier_, John reminded himself, _you aren't an easy target_. But as he walked on, John could hear footsteps behind him along with the slight shuffle of a coat, and John turned swiftly to face his pursuer.

That was the last thing he remembered before everything went black and John couldn't remember a thing.

**_Chapter One_**

There were myths, tales, and even books and movies about vampires, depicted as cruel, bloodthirsty creatures or even lonely and lovesick, looking for an escape to mortality. Vampires were creatures of the night, burned in the sunlight and sleeping in coffins until their hour called them to awaken to feed on the innocent, even hypnotizing others to do their bidding. Their teeth and fangs were bright white, their beauty incomparable to any other, their speed and strength unimaginable, and their eyes the most hypnotizing…but all of this, of course, was a myth, and certainly not one John Watson was willing to believe.

"Bollocks!" he would say when his friend, Mike Stamford, would tell him silly little stories and try to entertain him with devilish tales of Dracula, "Why are you interested in all this anyway? You've never been interested in that sort of rubbish before."

"It's a fascinating topic, John," Mike would argue, "You need to branch out with your interests."

However, today was different. Mike met him in the park by coincidence and kindly left the vampire business out of their chat. Instead, Mike brought up someone who had been looking for a flatmate just as John was. John had only once brought up his looking for a flatshare with someone before and despite its only being a couple days prior, maybe a week, he was surprised Mike would remember. But today, Mike was full of surprises, for he invited John to accompany him to Bart's morgue to meet this potential flatmate. John hadn't set foot in Bart's in what seemed to be ages yet he would be lying if he said he wasn't excited. He looked forward to finding out how much things have changed as well as finding out who this man Mike was telling him about was, though it was a thought he did not voice to spare himself subtle taunting from Mike.

"He'll be pleased to meet you," said Mike as they rode in the back of a cab to St. Bart's.

"Why?" John asked as he twirled his hand around his cane.

"He's been looking for a flatmate for awhile now, and he's good fun. He'll be glad to have a friend around."

"And I'll be his friend?"

"Well flatmates don't always have to be friends—"

"Who said I wanted to be his flatmate?"

Mike sighed and rolled his eyes as he looked to John, "Just give him a chance. He deserves one just as much as you do."

John sighed and sank back into the seat. Stamford was right, but what if this man thought lesser of him because of his injuries and the fact that he walked with a cane? What if he just didn't like John altogether? It didn't matter in the end, though, did it? John would be back to searching for a flatmate and scraping along to live in his little apartment in London on an army pension if anything went wrong or neither of them wanted to give the other a chance. He had to at least try to see past the surface, right?

Finally, they arrived at Bart's, the cabbie was paid, and John followed Mike up to the morgue. The hospital seemed to look the same since John had been in it last, but as he walked on, it had changed more than he expected. It was more advanced and the obvious new staff that were running about minding their own business save the select few that bid Mike a good morning. Only one or two may have recognized John or acknowledged him as they made their way to the morgue, but he paid hardly any mind to them.

"Are you sure about this?" John asked just as they stopped outside the morgue doors.

"Yes," Mike answered, "he's a…polite fellow. Just come on, John."

Before John could argue, Mike opened the door and John stepped through with an acknowledgement as to how different the morgue looked from when he'd last been there as a student. He didn't exactly care about the things in the room at all (even _if _some specimens were particularly interesting), it was the tall, pale man with black curls atop his head standing at the end of the table over a Petri dish. John was awestruck. He'd never seen a man that looked quite like that: seemingly without a flaw and absolutely—

"Ah, Mike," said the man, his voice deeper than his face suggested, "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Needed to stop by for something from my office," he answered as he took a seat across the room, leaving John to stand by himself at the other end of the table, "This is an old colleague and a friend of mine, John Watson."

The man looked up to John and offered him a short, small smile before dropping it and looking him over and finally turning back to his work. John looked at Mike who was wearing a broad knowing smile which, in truth, surprised him. What was he up to?

"Pleasure," the man said as he carefully squeezed two drops of something that smelled like alcohol on the Petri dish, and the substance began to sizzle just as the man turned to face John again, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John's face fell immediately and he did a double-take between Mike and the man.

"Wha—You told him about me?" John accused.

"Not a word," Mike vowed.

"Afghanistan…h-how did you—"

"You're looking for a flatmate, too," the man said," Just the man to fill the vacancy."

John stared at him and couldn't help a disbelieving smirk that quirked his lips, "Who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did. This morning when I passed Mike on my way to the morgue, I mentioned I must be a difficult…_man_ to find a flatmate for."

Mike glanced between the two with a smirk on his face still. John was confused as to why Mike was looking so pleased with himself and why the man seemed interested in him yet at the same time completely uninterested in the two of them in the room at all. The man was still working on whatever it was he was doing, now sliding a small slide into a microscope, and John felt like he was intruding on something very intimate when he watched him work.  
"Looking for something?" the man asked suddenly and made eye contact with John.

"Er…no, not really—"

"I thought you said you were looking for a flatmate. Living in London on an army pension must be difficult to live by."

John stared at him, clenched his jaw, and swallowed hard as he cocked his head to the side, as if daring the man to say more.

"I'm looking for a flatmate, you're looking for a flatmate, and Mike has conveniently brought you by for a meet-and-greet. You're an army doctor, everything about you says that. The way you hold yourself, your limp that is merely psychosomatic which would prove your therapist correct—"

"Who said I have a therapist?"

"Limp and army doctor, and you've recently returned from a tour in Afghanistan, of course you've got a therapist. Trained at Bart's too, I assume. You're rather familiar with the setup here though it may be different from a few years ago. You don't sleep well nights, the bags under your eyes suggest so, and you tend to eat very little which is suggested—"

"How could you possibly know all this?"

"I observe."

"Observe?"

The man shifted his eyes towards the heavier man sitting across the room and Mike's face fell as he let the man look him over for just a second.

"Mike took a walk in the park earlier this morning and had coffee judging by the stains on the corners of his lips and the slight bit of grass stuck to his shoe. He took a shortcut across the park, possibly to catch up to you since you too have bits of dirt still on your cane that is not from upper London where I assume you live. He had a tart for breakfast judging by the crumbs on the collar of his coat, so he ate in a hurry and I think that's enough to be going on, don't you think?"

John stared at him and Mike was grinning to himself, his cheeks tinted pink and his ears a bit as well. The man grinned and turned suddenly to sweep up his coat and throw it over his shoulders and tie a navy blue scarf around his slender, pale neck before walking by John towards the door.

"Sorry, I've got to dash," he said, "Molly will be back soon to inspect it for me. I'm needed elsewhere."

"Hang on," John called to stop him, "I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."

Mike and the man shared a tiny smile that would normally go undetected, but John was so worked up with irritation and confusion and fascination that it would've surprised him if he missed it.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon, gents."

And with that, he left, and John Watson was left standing with an old friend and a tiny smirk on his face.

He was going to have quite an adventure living with this man, Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

NOTE: this is another short chapter I do apologize, BUT the story will progress swimmingly! :)

Later that evening, John walked up to the door of 221b Baker Street where the sound of violin music floated down from the open window upstairs. As he looked up at the window, he tapped his cane on the side of his foot as if he already questioned his decision to come along. But he was in need of a flatmate, even if this unbelievable man was going to the one he would be living with for God knows how long. So John took a deep breath and raised the knocker on the door, letting it fall back twice. The music suddenly stopped and a head of curly black hair poked out the window.

"Ah! I was wondering when you would arrive," said Sherlock with a broad smile on his lips, flashing his brilliantly white teeth, "Do come in, won't you?"

John waved up at him and reached to open the door, but an elderly woman pulled it open before he could.

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear," she said and stepped to the side to let him in, "I'm Mrs. Hudson, your landlady. Sherlock is upstairs so you can go right on up."

"Nice to meet you, I'm John Watson," he said as he stepped inside the door. He offered her a smile before she directed him up the stairs where he could hear someone moving around, moving things into or out of place, and oddly, it sounded like they were moving rather fast. However as his head poked around the corner where he could see into the flat, all he saw was a tall man in a blazer with his hands behind his back as he stood at the window, watching the street below.

"Is that a skull?" was the first question out of John's mouth, gesturing to the skull sitting on the mantle.

"Friend of mine," Sherlock answered, but he kept his back turned, "Well, I say 'friend'…"

John looked around at the clutter scattered about the flat, boxes sitting around wherever it seemed they could fit, a laptop sitting open but black on the desk, and a multitude of other things sitting around that he didn't dare investigate. There was a red chair and a black leather chair sitting at the fireplace, multiple books stacked in a large box in the leather chair, and John continued on into the kitchen where the table was cluttered with what looked to be a lot of scientific equipment.

"I take it the previous occupants haven't moved out entirely yet?" John called as he turned back to the sitting room. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and spun on his heel to begin straightening things up. But why? They weren't his things…were they?

"Is this…your stuff?" John asked with a hint of a smirk.

"Obviously…I can straighten things up a bit, not a problem," Sherlock answered while he shuffled things around and tried to make the room more presentable, "I figured you'd agree to move in, so I decided to go ahead and...move…in…._ So_, Dr. John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, I hope this doesn't deter you from moving in. We'll split the rent; Mrs. Hudson owes me a favor anyway. But do make yourself at home, John. Mrs. Hudson would be happy to make you a nice cuppa."

"What was that?" Mrs. Hudson called from the stairs as she was making her way up to the two men, "Oh, of course, dear, but just this once. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

John smiled as a "thank you" to Mrs. Hudson as he took a seat in the red chair by the fireplace. Sherlock was still bustling about attempting to straighten things up, but he'd hardly moved in yet, there was no need for him to be doing anything like that right now. John looked around the room with his eyes, lifting some newspapers off the end table beside him and just sifting through them while they waited. However, the moment Mrs. Hudson opened the fridge and started to complain to Sherlock about something, Sherlock ran over to her and slammed the fridge shut to keep her from saying anything more.

"Don't mind that," he said, though John could barely catch the words, "I have to have it in there, you know that."

"But why not in the freezer? It'll be better that way—"

"I have to heat it anyway, Mrs. Hudson. I'll keep it safe from harm and puncturing. You won't have to explain it to anyone, alright?"

"Yes but the—"

Sherlock shushed her immediately and muttered something to her that John couldn't catch. All he wanted to know was what was in the fridge.

"Oh, alright," she sighed and Sherlock promptly returned to the sitting room to start shelving the books that were in the chair opposite John.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" John asked and sat forward, ready to help if he was needed.

"Oh no, it's fine," Sherlock answered, "I have a specific way I shelve my books."

"And I would mess that up?"

"Yes."

Sherlock smiled shortly at John and the doctor sat back in his chair with a shake of his head. This man was definitely one of the few who seemed to intrigue John more than battles and danger, but he had yet to find out that this man was one of the most dangerous men he'd ever encountered. And he wasn't even human.


	3. Chapter 3

As the days passed, John began to notice a bit of strange behavior from Sherlock. The man wouldn't go out on sunny days and instead he would lounge around inside and do some sort of experiment in the kitchen, he hardly ate (Mrs. Hudson said that it was normal for him, but John still knew it wasn't healthy), and some days he nearly looked dead, what with dark bags under his eyes and the dull color of his usually vibrant sea green eyes. Sherlock was always secretive about the things he kept in the fridge and John would hear him get up in the middle of the night for a midnight snack which, quite frankly, happened often. John never got the curiosity bug to get him to go look in the drawer in the fridge that had "SHERLOCK'S. DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU WISH TO DIE OF FRIGHT" written in black marker on it (a poor choice in words to keep one out of a secret drawer, but then again, it _was _Sherlock). That was until one night, he was lying awake and unable to sleep and he couldn't help but continuously wonder about Sherlock. His skin was abnormally pale, but given the circumstances that the man hardly saw sunlight he guessed it wasn't as abnormal as he thought; he stayed up until about five or six in the morning just sitting in his room doing…whatever it was he did; he would always leave in the middle of the night, or at least he would about once a week. All of it just seemed…strange to John. He would consider Sherlock a bit of a night owl, but this was a bit extreme.

John lay there, staring at the ceiling, and let out a long sigh. Surely he had to be out of his mind to think that there was something truly abnormal about Sherlock. It was something everybody around him seemed to know but kept it secret from him like his bloody life depended on it. Or perhaps it did? What if Sherlock was hiding a horrible dark secret from him, like cannibalism or keeping severed heads in the—well, he'd already done that once, so that wouldn't be news to John. He tried to brush it off, to ignore the curiosity digging at his brain, but it was no use. He had to know what was in the refrigerator.

Quietly, John pulled the sheets off his body and crept out of his room. Hopefully Sherlock would be asleep by now and John could be in and out of the kitchen quiet as a mouse and back up in his room to get some sleep. Maybe if he was lucky, the reveal wouldn't be too dreadful, maybe it was just some severed digits or something of the sort, and he could just go and sleep as he pleased. He peered over the railing at the dark hallway below, the only light being the streetlamp streaming through the window, and listened for Sherlock. He waited and waited, but not a single sound was made, and he quietly climbed down the stairs and slipped into the kitchen, listening for the sound of movement coming from Sherlock's room.

Nothing.

So he proceeded with caution towards the fridge and opened it as quietly as he could. He almost cursed the splash of light on the floor. John let the door open the rest of the way and he could hear nearly everything in the room, even the wind blowing against the side of the house apart from the rain battering the roof; his own breathing sounded like someone was yelling in his ear. As he scanned the shelves of beer, leftovers, and miscellaneous items, his eyes locked on the drawer that was clearly marked as Sherlock's. He didn't want to open it, but it was such a big secret and he wanted to know…or did he? John shook his head and delicately reached forward to open the drawer, curling his fingers around the handle and giving it a slight tug.

"What are you doing?"

John quite literally nearly shat himself at the ghostly figure of his flatmate with a juice box in his hand now standing right beside the fridge. He didn't look angry, but he didn't look too happy, either. John dropped his hands to his sides and took two steps back.

"I-I-I was just…um…y-you know—"

"Why were you going to open the drawer that is mine?"

"What? N-no, I wasn't—"

"Your hands were on it, your vein is popping out against your skin, and you won't look me in the eyes."

John swallowed hard and dropped his eyes to the floor as he chewed his lip and tried to think up an excuse, but really, Sherlock had given him such a fright he didn't think he could ever remember what real words were. His lips flapped wordlessly for a moment, still trying to think up an excuse but failing miserably. But before John could make another move, the room was once again cloaked in darkness as a long, slender arm stretched across his face and slammed the fridge door closed. Now he'd done it.

"Don't _ever_ open that drawer, John Watson," Sherlock growled, striking fear into the very depths of John's soul, "That's why there's a label on it. Would I open a drawer that had _your_ name on it?"

"T-To be fair, yes you would."

There was a long, unpleasant and un-amused sipping of the juice box that could be heard in the darkened silence that didn't dare bring forth a laugh from John. After a long moment of just staring at the space where John had seen Sherlock's face last, his eyes adjusted and he could see the clear…blankness that was his face. Why didn't his face match his voice? John had expected him to look absolutely enraged, but there was just nothing to be registered upon his face.

"This is no time for jokes, John," Sherlock hissed, speaking at last, but it wasn't exactly the tone John was keen on hearing, "Listen to me and do not open that drawer, do not even look at it. Go back upstairs and try to get some sleep. We have a case to wrap up tomorrow morning. Early."

It didn't take John too long to actually obey, bid Sherlock goodnight, and sulk back up to his room. He was ashamed, he was embarrassed, and he felt absolutely awful. He let out a long aggravated sigh as he threw himself upon his bed and burrowed deep beneath his sheets without even thinking about getting out of bed again until morning. To him, it would be a miracle if Sherlock would ever even look at him and not think terrible things of him, at least for a little while. John _did_ try to invade his privacy after all.

The following morning, John woke up earlier than he wanted to, but he had Sherlock's antics to thank for that. Groaning, he climbed out of bed and got dressed before making his way down the stairs to the kitchen to find Sherlock sitting at the table with yet another juice box. Across from him was a plate filled with toast, eggs, and bacon, obviously set for John, and so the doctor took the empty seat and folded his hands between his knees.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked, taking another sip of the juice, "Mrs. Hudson came up and made you breakfast. You need to eat."

"_I _need to eat?" he protested with a disbelieving look on his face, "You haven't eaten nor drank anything but that bloody juice box for a week! You're going to waste away—"

"Highly illogical; if I would, I would be a pile of dust by now. Eating slows me down, as I have told you time and time again over the past four weeks."

"Seriously? You're going to sit here and not eat because of a case?"

"Yes."

John almost laughed and opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock quickly cut him off by opening his own mouth to speak.

"You didn't sleep well, did you?"

John stared at him, but eventually sighed and shook his head. "Not really. Why?"

"I just noticed the bags under your eyes and uneasiness as you came into the room that had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that you tried to invade my private drawer in the refrigerator at two in the morning. Or did it?"

Sherlock's words were crisp on his tongue as he looked at John and patronizingly sucked on the straw of his juice box, staring at him, and it was making John rather uncomfortable. He looked away for a moment and chewed the inside corner of his mouth before shifting his eyes back to Sherlock whom he found was still staring at him.

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock!" he shouted in frustration, throwing his hands up before letting them fall back on the table, "Yes I had trouble sleeping because of not knowing what was in the drawer. Now if you could do me a favor, please stop staring at me and sipping your bloody juice box, that would be wonderful."

"You've called it a bloody juice box twice, I take it as an offense—"

"Sherlock, I don't think it really _matters_ how many times I 'offended' your juice box. Why the hell do you drink those things anyway? I haven't really seen you eat much in the month that I've known you and I know that's not healthy. I know these things, I'm a doctor."

"Oh please."

"I _am _a doctor—"

"John if you would just listen for five seconds. I _have_ eaten, you just haven't seen me. Mrs. Hudson can vouch for me and don't go asking her you'll interrupt her relaxation time with her herbal soothers."

"You haven't eaten at a single restaurant we've been to together, I usually am the one that finishes off whatever is left in the fridge, and the only thing you really eat is tea and biscuits."

"I think that's enough for a proper British diet."

"Sherlock now isn't really the time for jokes. Why don't I make you some tea so you can stop drinking juice boxes?"

Sherlock almost looked offended.

"I am content with my juice box," he insisted as he rose from his seat to toss his finished juice box into the bin, "but I do believe, John, that we have a case to solve."

"Not until I've finished my breakfast. And I think you split your lip, you've got a little blood on the corner, just there."

Sherlock poked at the blood on the corner of his mouth with his tongue before licking his lips and disappearing into his room. John didn't think anything of it, it was a fairly normal thing to do, and so he finished his breakfast, said hello to Mrs. Hudson as she came up the stairs with two or three grocery bags, and went upstairs to get dressed. They had a case to solve and by the sound of it, Sherlock already had it figured out. Hopefully he would be able to catch on and not slow Sherlock down…as usual.

The two of them ended up getting out of the house at sundown thanks to Lestrade pulling an argument with Sherlock about…whatever it was that Sherlock was yelling about in his bedroom. The cab ride was short, though it wasn't even in the direction of the crime scene. John had almost forgotten that Sherlock tended to go on his own in finding the suspect and taking him down. As he'd told him in the cab, they were looking for a very nimble man, but a large, muscular man with big hands and feet, but John didn't see how it would be easy to find this man running through every alleyway in London. It would be a miracle if they did within the hour, or maybe even by midnight; it was already dark and dreary and John didn't particularly want to be outside which Sherlock ridiculed him about for maybe thirty seconds. As they walked on in the rain, John was subconsciously trying to figure out what was in the drawer in the fridge that Sherlock was so keen on keeping anybody and everybody out of. Sherlock was one of the most secretive men John had ever met and even though he respected his secrets, his natural human curiosity was still trying to get the better of him and make him—

"Okay, you've got questions. Again," Sherlock said suddenly, snapping John out of his thoughts.

"Huh?"

"I can practically hear the wheels turning in your head."

"Oh…well I was just…wondering why we were—"

"You already know the answer to that one. Next."

"Why are you so concerned about anyone opening that drawer in the fridge? Mrs. Hudson has a fridge, why don't you keep it down there?"

"Some questions are better left unanswered."

"Not this one."

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, he snapped it shut again and pulled John to the side behind a dumpster. At the end of the alley, there was a man peering around the corner, a rather large man with big hands and big feet, and he was making absolutely no sound or move whatsoever. Sherlock clamped his hand over John's mouth and peered around the side of the dumpster, but the moment his head poked out, a shot was fired and the man went running.

"Do not move from this spot!" Sherlock commanded and took off after the other man.

"Sherlock!" John called, but it was no use for his friend was already around the corner and gone. _Of course_, he thought to himself. He couldn't sit there much longer, especially in the dark when it was likely he could be arrested under suspicion of firing the shot, being mugged, or even being shot himself. Just as he got to his feet, another shot was fired in the distance followed by another and yet another. Oh god.

John broke into a sprint in the direction he heard the shots fired, praying that he wouldn't find Sherlock in a groaning (or silent) heap somewhere in a pool of blood. He ran, nearly sliding in a puddle, and a brilliant flash of lightning across the sky illuminated the alleys surrounding him and at last, he caught sight of two men running just a block away, one he knew was Sherlock. He ran as fast as he could towards him. As he neared, another shot was fired and hit Sherlock in the leg, knocking him onto the pavement. John's heart seemed to stop.

"Sherlock!" he cried and raced after him. However, before he could reach him, Sherlock was up on his feet again and gone around the corner again. John stopped in his tracks as he stared after Sherlock, his mouth agape. No blood, no shout of pain, no writhing or anything on the street, just…running. The doctor stared after him utterly dumbstruck and he couldn't figure out what on earth he had just seen. Maybe it was his imagination that Sherlock got shot? Maybe it was just the fear of the night that was making him see things? But…but Sherlock _fell_! He was knocked over by the shot! It was physically impossible to have been shot and then get up and walk away like it never happened! He had to be dreaming, right? John shook his head to dismiss the thoughts and ran after Sherlock once again, hoping to catch him before anything else went wrong.

Before he could get moving again, his phone buzzed in his pocket and he opened it to find a text from Sherlock.

I've called Lestrade. I'm fine. Go back home. See you soon. SH

John stared at the text and angrily typed back:

YOU'RE FINE?! YOU WERE SHOT IN THE LEG! JW

John glared at his phone as he walked on, hailing a cab as soon as he got to the street and snapping at the cabbie when he told him where to go. He did apologize, but after a few minutes when he cooled down. He was still in shock, still disbelieving at how it was possible for a man to be shot _four times_ and not die or at least bleed out. But it didn't even slow the man down! John was very aware that Sherlock wasn't some kind of superhuman even if he liked to believe that he was, but this would prove John wrong on more than one occasion. If he asked when he saw Sherlock, surely the man would mock how unobservant John was or make some joke, or maybe even threaten him with some ridiculous death like…he couldn't even think of anything. All he knew was that he had to ask Sherlock what was going on with him the moment he got home. Sherlock would be in a world of trouble if he wasn't already.

Finally, the cab pulled up to 221b and was paid as John was climbing out of the back as he fumbled with his keys, though once he got to the door, he found it to already be unlocked. Grumbling, he walked inside and slammed the door behind him which in turn rocked a portrait on the wall. Mrs. Hudson shrieked in her apartment and opened the door to find John storming up the stairs.

"John?" she asked as she started to follow him, "Is everything alright?"

John stopped on the stairs and looked down at Mrs. Hudson. She knew something and he knew she did, and she obviously knew he knew she did, so why not ask her?

"Why can he get shot and not die?" he snarled, "Why does he drink juice boxes all the time? Why—"

"John?"

John looked up to the top of the stairs to see Sherlock with his coat buttoned up and his weight on his opposite leg.

"Where've you been?"

"Come upstairs. I have to talk to you."

"Like hell you do."

Sherlock glared down at him and John followed promptly, not wanting to delay the questioning (or rebuking) any further. Once the both of them were in the kitchen, John didn't give Sherlock any time to explain himself or to even speak before he bombarded him with questions.

"Why are you not in a hospital?" he demanded, "Why do you look like absolutely nothing happened to you except the mud on your coat, hm? Why—"

"John, I need you to listen to me and I prefer you sit down, please."

"No I'm fine, thanks—"

"John. Please."

John looked to the floor and let out a sigh before he pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat by the door. He couldn't see any bullet holes in Sherlock, not even exit wounds out the back of his coat, and there was absolutely no blood. But what was even more unnerving was how pale the light made Sherlock look and how dark his eyes were, it almost seemed unnatural.

"Thank you for coming along on the case, by the way," Sherlock said as he took a seat at the end of the table, "I was, uh…glad for your help."

"I didn't even do anything," John said, crossing his arms.

"You helped capture him."

"How?"

"When he heard you yell my name, he slowed down and he did try to…to kill me, but he ran straight into the police. So…thank you for that."

John didn't say a word.

Sherlock cleared his throat and turned to pick up a juice box he'd set on the table, handing it to John who turned it over in his hands in confusion, and said, "What do you see?"

"A…a juice box…?"

"Yes, but what's in the juice box?"

"Juice…?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and took the box back from John.

"Not quite."

"What is it, then?"

This building up wasn't exactly doing it for John, but he would rather wait than burst and yell at Sherlock to get him to tell. He didn't even understand why he was so worked up—oh right because he wasn't sitting in the hospital with Sherlock where he should be.

"Mike Stamford's recent subject of interest…he's walking a fine line. I told him, more like he caught me, about a month or two prior to his meeting you and he's hinted greatly at it. I feared telling you because very, very few people know about my…my condition and I was afraid to drive you away. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, my brother, Stamford, and now you are the only people who know."

"Know what?"

Sherlock took yet another deep breath and dropped his eyes for a long moment before finally looking at John again.

"I'm a vampire."


	4. Chapter 4

John stared at Sherlock as if he'd just been told the biggest and cruelest joke that man could've come up with. That couldn't be true; vampires were just a creature of fiction, weren't they? John laughed nervously as the idea began to plant itself in his mind. Sherlock hadn't lied to him before about anything other than this…but this was something he really should've kept in the dark.

"No you're not," he said, his voice shaky.

"Yes I am," Sherlock mumbled, "I have fangs, I drink blood, I can eat human food, but I do not kill people…anymore…"

"_Anymore_?"

Any normal man would've jumped out of his seat and started his run for the hills, but John was not a normal man, and therefore he stayed put and stared at Sherlock in disbelief. He craved danger and living with a…a _vampire_ who had actually killed people before was about as dangerous as it could get.

"I wanted to stop because my killings were leading back to my…my…so I asked Molly if she could keep a special cache of blood for me and she has been. That's what's in the drawer. These juice boxes also have blood in them. It's silly but it's the only way I can drink blood without being conspicuous or people wondering what else is wrong with me."

John stared at him, unsure of what to say, and right now, he wished he did. Sherlock looked at him like he was a child who had just confessed flushing his mother's jewelry down the loo. He had just told John his biggest secret after only knowing the man for a month and he wasn't saying a word.

The silence in the room was deafening, only interrupted by the rain beating the roof and the thunder in the distance. There was still so much Sherlock had to tell John and there were still so many questions John had to ask Sherlock, but this was just the beginning of all their troubles. John had no idea how much danger he'd put himself in just by knowing and even more by living with him.

"If I may ask," Sherlock said quietly, "I need your help getting the bullets out. You can't hurt me and I can't hurt you. Nothing will come out except the bullet and it will heal. Please, John."

"I…um…s-sure," he answered, his voice shaking, "Just, uh…let me get my medical…thing…"

"What's wrong? Your voice is shaking and you look pale. Would you like something to drink or lie down?"

"What's wr—Sherlock, you just told me that you're a _vampire_ and that you drink blood and that you've _killed people_! What else could possibly be wrong?!"

"Maybe that I'm not dead…_again_, from being shot…?"

"Seriously?"

"Sorry…"

John let out a heavy sigh and carefully slid off his seat and walked over to Sherlock, looking him over and wondering what sort of horror film he wandered into. Just looking at him brought all the pieces together: not wanting to go out in the sunlight, secret drawers in the fridge, hardly eating, pale skin, and how dark his eyes were.

"Can…can I ask you something?" John said hesitantly.

"If you think you can bear the answer," he answered.

"When was the last time you fed on a human being?"

Sherlock hesitated, "About 1903."

"_1903_?!"

"Yes, John."

"You…you're over a hundred years old!"

"Obviously. Don't be so transparent."

"Sher—"

"I was born in 1854, turned in 1889 just after my 35th birthday. So I'm dead but I'm also _not_ dead…sort of."

John pursed his lips in disbelief, the overwhelming flux of information making him feel as if his mind would explode at any second, and he knotted his hands in his hair as he turned from Sherlock, still not understanding how any of this science fiction could be _real! _He had to get his head together and keep his mind focused before anything else would have the chance to go haywire today. He was going to have to live with this, yet he didn't realize that he truly _would_ have to live with it. He had absolutely nowhere to go, but he had absolutely no intention of leaving, either.

"Bullets," he repeated as he let his doctoral instincts take over to hopefully give his mind some time to wrap around this whole situation, "Bullets. We have to get them out and your wounds closed before infection sets in."

Sherlock nodded, not daring to argue despite his urge to correct John on the fact that vampires don't get infected by mundane diseases, and he turned towards the bathroom and marched in the direction John was practically pushing him. He knew he was in trouble and he knew that John would eventually start yelling at him all over again when it finally _truly_ struck him that he was living with a monster, but for now, John just had to learn to trust Sherlock. Just because he now knew that he was what he was didn't mean Sherlock was going to treat him any different; he was just going to be a little more open about things such as his blood-drinking habits as much.

"Counter," John commanded when they got in the bathroom, "Coat off and shirt open, please."

Again Sherlock followed orders and ignored John's wince of empathetic pain when the detective's coat was shed and his shirt opened to reveal three bullet holes that were not at all bleeding. One was just off center in his abdomen, another through his ribs, and the last one almost piercing his heart. He knew they looked bad and he knew how his skin looked like broken rock around the wounds beneath his shirt, but he wasn't going to utter a word and he was not going to make a move until John finished.

John quickly shook himself out of his daze and went straight back to getting into his medical bag for the forceps and bandages. He quickly got to work with a flashlight in his mouth to see the bullets still lodged in Sherlock's body and was genuinely surprised that his friend wasn't dead…again. With careful precision and steady hands, John got to work at pulling the bullets out.

"This won't hurt you, will it?" he asked, "I won't cause any bleeding?"

"It shouldn't," Sherlock answered, "If it does, it'll be minimal. Not enough to kill me."

"Again?"

Sherlock looked down at John and sighed, "Again, yes…"

John noticed the look on Sherlock's face and immediately apologized as he resumed his work. The bullets were lodged deep in Sherlock's skin and at times, the vampire would wince and suck in a sharp breath of pain when John would hit a raw spot in the wound, but eventually, John got them out. There was very little blood and the bullets had partially broken inside Sherlock, but other than that, they were fairly easy to get out and the holes very easy to bandage.

"There's one in my leg you've forgotten," Sherlock said quietly and tapped his knee, wincing slightly in pain.

"Oh…right," said John, "Where is it?"

"Just below my kneecap; it shouldn't be too hard to get out."

John nodded and watched Sherlock turn the bullets over in his hand as he knelt in front of him, making the taller man sit on the counter while he tried to dig it out of his leg. He rolled up his pant leg and grimaced at the wound, this one slightly larger than the others since it was at such close range. Surprisingly, this one would've been more difficult to get at than the other ones, but he would manage, though not without a wince or gasp of pain from Sherlock. John would continue to apologize every time he would cause his friend further pain, but at last, that bullet was also removed and he was able to bandage it easily.

"Better?" John asked as he got to his feet and began to sanitize everything and put it away.

Sherlock hopped off the counter and buttoned his holey shirt, slinging his coat over his arm and testing the bending and folding of his body to make sure he was good to go.

"Better," he answered with a tiny smile, "Thank you, John. I don't know how—"

"I've still got questions."

Of course he did. Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded, "Let me change clothes first, please."

John nodded, and with that, they exited the bathroom and Sherlock turned immediately to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. As if he wasn't angry enough, John stood straight as a pin and walked to the sitting room where the streetlamp was shining through the cracks in the curtains, joined by bright flashes of lightning at times and creating an eerie scene. He took a seat in his usual red chair and sat there in the dark silence.

A vampire. _A vampire_, of all things. This was just a dream; it all had to be a dream, didn't it? John had no idea how any of this could be true, he had absolutely no idea how his reality was turning into a science fiction novel, he had no idea how Sherlock was even real. Was he on drugs? Did John get himself into some hallucinogens? No…no that wasn't it. He felt fine. His pulse was normal and he wasn't seeing unicorns at the fridge, so there's that. But a _vampire_? Weren't they only real in horror novels and films and sappy teen movies? John almost laughed at himself to think that Sherlock would ever sparkle, and very, very glad he didn't.

John was startled when Sherlock's door slammed again and the detective walked out, dragging his feet, and kindly sat across from him in his leather chair. Silence fell between them. It was a deafening silence and John silently begged for it to be lifted, but it seemed it did not wish to be remedied, and neither man seemed to want to make eye contact. There were hundreds of questions running through John's mind pertaining to Sherlock's…state of being, and the things involved with it, yet he couldn't find the right words to really figure out what he wanted to ask.

"John, please slow your thinking it's giving me a migraine," Sherlock said flatly after what seemed to be an eternity.

The doctor nodded and looked down at his hands in his lap.

"Please ask your questions. I would rather get this over with sooner than later. Do it quick, like pulling off a Band-Aid."

John took a deep breath and didn't dare raise his eyes to meet Sherlock's brilliantly bright blue ones.

"How are you able to stand to be so close to humans?" he questioned, hesitant, "How is it that you've resisted killing me or Lestrade or even Molly?"

"I've trained myself very thoroughly for the past century or so to keep myself calm around things that bleed. That's why I decided to study corpses and become a detective. My senses far exceed that of average humans and therefore the cases would be solved much quicker. Though, if I do need blood, I usually ask Molly to keep a small cache for me, as I've told you before. I keep from drinking from humans by choice and practice. More practice than you can fathom."

"Right…okay…"

"Next?"

"Um…do you burn in the sunlight?"

Sherlock grinned. "Like a sunburn unless I'm out there longer than necessary. Then my skin turns black and if I remain in the sun, I will burn up and turn into a shriveled up corpse. If treated in time, it will only leave a scar."

"Do you have any scars from this?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, but decided he had none and shook his head.

"No. Next."

"Are you ever tempted to feed on a human?"

"Rarely. Next."

John glared at him but he didn't make anything of it.

"Are you fast? Strong?"

"Yes. Yes. Next."

"How strong?"

"Strong enough to haul myself up and over buildings. Next."

"Really?"

"Yes, John, now please ask me anything else you can think of."

"I can't really think of anything else, to be honest."

"I'll give you a few ideas: no, I do not sleep in a coffin, too tedious. No, I do not hiss at sunlight. No, I do not secretly sleep in the basement and call it my 'lair'. No, I do not hypnotize people to let me drink their blood or to lead them to their death. I don't have that power."

"Who does?"

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, his eyes unnervingly bright, and said, "Not one who deserves it."

"Who holds this power, if I may ask?"

Sherlock's gaze turned deadly and his eyes bore into John's.

"A spider, a spider in the center of his immortal web of monsters and he knows exactly how each one twists, turns, screams, and thinks. He abuses them mentally, emotionally, and sometimes physically. He is…no more questions. I'm going to bed."

"Hang on—"

"Please, John. I've never asked you about your scars, don't ask me about mine."

Before John could utter another word, Sherlock was up and out of his chair and back in his bedroom with the door locked. He had answered all of John's questions, but had arisen more than he ever expected, and not ones he ever wanted to ask or maybe even know the answer to. He wondered what had happened with the man with the power and Sherlock to make him not want to say another word or answer anymore questions.

As John gathered his thoughts and deemed it best to get to bed, he stopped and stared in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. He'd forgotten to ask the most important question he desperately needed the answer to: was he in more danger now than ever before?


	5. Chapter 5

****NOTE: the distance is from North Gower Street and the River Thames. I used Google Maps as a reference, so there is a chance it may be inaccurate. Please and thank you :)**

_Underground London, England, 43 miles (69.2 km) from 221b Baker Street_

The sound of water dripping onto the stone beneath her feet filled the dark night as she walked through the old tunnels en route to the castle of the coven. Unfortunately, it was not a castle as one would expect. Instead, it was a mansion that had been built beneath London in the hopes of using it as a bunker for the needs of any passerby who knew the code in the early 1880s. It served enough purpose for the use of the vampire coven with plenty of refrigeration, darkness, and plenty of privacy from the mundane world around them. Here, they could hide. Here, they were safe from the burning eye of the sun. Here, they were free.

The woman walked with a sort of pride around her and kept her head held high as she entered through the enormous oak doors into the foyer where two or three groups of vampires were sitting around doing absolutely nothing. She stopped in the center of the room, her shoes' clicking making a sudden stop as she stood in the marble compass rose, and stared at them as the light above their heads began swaying to move every last shadow cast by its ghostly blue light. The few vampires hardly dared to look her in the eye, let alone look at her face, but they did and they knew they had done something wrong.

"Billy, how are you?" the woman asked.

A young vampire with blond hair nodded once and stood, walking over to her, trying to not look weak compared to her.

"I'm well," he answered as he stopped at the end of one of the sofas.

"That's good. Then why aren't you doing your work?"

Billy looked back at the others before he turned back to the woman.

"We've finished," he said quietly, "The dogs have begun to take care of the, uh…fresh meat."

"And why aren't you supervising them?"

"We have not been asked to."

The woman smirked and her eyes changed, a sinister light taking them over, and she cocked her head to the side. Billy couldn't move.

"I don't recall any of you having to be given orders of such responsibility before," she said, her voice firm, "You usually just…do them with the hopes that _he_ will reward you or that I will punish you. Isn't that true, Billy?"

Billy couldn't say a word, he could only watch as she raised her hand and slapped him across the face, leaving a broken trail on his cheek.

"Go. All of you. Or I shall have him hang you within an inch of the eternal flame."

With that threat staring them in the face, they all took off towards the kitchens, some running along the walls while others decided to take the mundane route for the sake of not having to step over paintings or light fixtures. The woman continued on her route to the back of the house through a long, dark corridor lit only by the light of the tall windows sitting underwater in the River Thames until she reached two enormous ornate doors. They opened to a winding staircase and at the end, she would find the door leading to the study of the man who owned the house, the man who changed the vast majority of the vampires living in this abandoned mansion, and the man who could tear the world apart piece by piece by cutting one little string at a time.

The woman entered into the massive study and stopped at the desk in the center of the room. At the window that took up nearly an entire wall stood a man with slick black hair and his back to her as he looked out upon London across the river, his body still as if it were standing there dead, and the woman opened her mouth to speak.

"Hoods do not hide your identity, Irene Adler," said he.

She stared at his back and narrowed her eyes as she dropped her hood, "You sent for me, _Jim_?"

James Moriarty slowly turned to face Irene, wearing an empty expression but his eyes were alive with something indescribable, something that made it difficult for Irene to look him in the eyes.

"How's Sherlock?"

Irene hesitated.

"I wouldn't know. I haven't spoken to him in decades."

"Three months can be decades to some people—"

"I saw him, I did not speak with him."

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere. I see he's got a new pet with him?"

"He is not showing any signs of killing the man. Sherlock has learned to live with humans and live with them comfortably."

"The urge to kill is never absent, Miss Adler. You know that very well."

Irene tried to blink back the tears that came with the prominent horrors of her past, but she failed. Her past was not one to be proud of and she never was. Killing innocent men, women, and children for her own sake; all she wanted was their blood and it cost them their lives. Sometimes at night, she can still hear their screams.

"And you know it well too, Moriarty," she hissed.

"I don't pretend to hide it, my dear," he purred and began to saunter towards his desk where a file lay open, filled with blank pages, "Now about his new 'friend'. Dr. John Hamish Watson, captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, shot in the shoulder and invalided home from Afghanistan. And there's the cat out of the bag—"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't interrupt me, Irene, it will not end well. Your Sherlock takes well to the men in the military, always has and always will, and now there is one living with him. Shot in the left shoulder and no longer uses a cane for his psychological problems blah, blah, blah, sister, no one cares, blah, blah, blah…tut, tut, what a shame. You know, I thought you two were absolutely perfect for each other, which is why I changed him for you. Turns out he wasn't interested at all. Pity."

"I did not come here to be reminded of—"

"I give him five months."

Irene stopped, her mouth hanging open, "I'm sorry?"

"John Watson will be dead by the end of the five months, and if Sherlock doesn't kill him, you will."

The silence in the room was heavy and the two locked eyes, and there in the pits of his black eyes she could see that he was right.

"But what if I should be stopped by Sherlock?" she asked.

"Then let him kill you."

Irene stared at him, her mouth open but saying nothing, and she then knew that this discussion was terminated. She bowed her head and turned on her heel to leave the room, followed by the quiet chuckling of Jim Moriarty. She couldn't believe that he was dangling Sherlock in front of her face like that, treating her like that and making her feel more worthless than she already did. The acceptance of his newfound life among the humans could not come soon enough for her and frankly, she was still waiting. She would follow him sometimes to make sure he was safe and not being hunted. But that was as far as her tracking went…in her eyes, at least.

But now as she watched Sherlock from a dark, abandoned building as he worked on a case with his new friend, his new partner, and she contemplated sending the wolves after him to make Sherlock turn from him. Yet even _she_ could see that Sherlock would not so easily leave him, especially in the horrifying state that the curse would leave him. Irene watched how Sherlock and John seemed to follow each other around like lost puppies finding protection in the other and she felt a pang in her chest. It was obvious to her that there was something undeniable going on between them, but she did not dare to address it.

"You've forgotten me," she murmured and just as she expected, Sherlock turned his head in her direction, but immediately turned it back to John and pushed him closer to a man with salt and pepper hair protectively. Irene choked back tears and decided at once she would not interfere. They were just friends after all.


	6. Chapter 6

There was absolutely no sign of Irene Adler since that wintry night and that alone made Sherlock a little more suspicious. He knew Irene had been following him or his activities for quite a few decades since he left her, but there was a part of him that knew it was only her way of making sure he was okay and not dead somewhere in London or in prison. John had no idea the encounter had even occurred and he had absolutely no reason to know unless her presence posed a potential threat to his safety. But since it did not, John was left politely in the dark and he would not know until the time came, if it ever would.

One fine spring evening, John was lounging about the flat with the windows open-airing it out a bit since Sherlock refused to let him or Mrs. Hudson dust-when Sherlock decided to barge in the room with a boxful of blood and went to go put the packets in his special drawer in the refrigerator. John gave a heavy sigh as he watched Sherlock from his position on the couch and decided to follow Sherlock into the kitchen to unload his stock. It was a bit of routine now for the two of them to do this: John just sitting there absolutely fascinated by the fact that he had grown so used to watching this man, a vampire, going about his daily life like nothing about him was different. Really, there wasn't too much of a difference except that Sherlock's senses were far greater than John's, he was far older, and he drank blood to keep himself alive. Oh, and he was supposed to be dead.

"How often do you have to drink blood?" John asked, a surprisingly new question, "Sorry if that's a bit out of the blue, I was just…wondering…"

Sherlock closed the fridge and folded his coat over his arm as he set a juice box on the counter, and answered, "As often as I need to. Just like humans do when they're hungry. Though, I do have a fairly different diet and eating habit than most humans or even vampires for that matter. I only drink these to…to…yes."

Without another word, Sherlock picked up his juice box, hung up his coat and scarf, and isolated himself from the world in his corner of the sofa where he sat and tapped away on his laptop, sipping on his juice box. Eventually, John decided he wouldn't push Sherlock into giving him an answer, but he still had a few more questions to ask him despite knowing Sherlock was a vampire for just a little over two months now.

"Sherlock?" John asked from the kitchen as he made his way into the sitting room to sit in his own chair.

"Hm?" the detective replied, unmoving.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

"Ha. Ha. I'm being serious, Sherlock. This is important."

Sherlock sighed and moved his laptop aside to give his full attention to John, "Yes?"

"Um…n-now that I know…what you are, is there any threat to my life? Not from you, but from others like you?"

Sherlock had been hoping John wouldn't ask that question, but he knew the man would have to wonder eventually. He just wished he would wonder after he got everything and everyone off his own trail and sorted everything out.

"No," he answered, "They don't know you know, and they don't even know who you are. You're safe."

"Oh…good, that's good…yes…"

"Is something the matter, John?"

"No, I was just thinking."

"Thinking?"

"Yeah, thinking."

"Of what?"

"Just…about things. So, does normal food taste bad to you?"

Swift change of subject, but a good one, he supposed. Sherlock shrugged and pulled his laptop onto his legs again, and answered, "No, not really. I just have to keep a good balance of blood in my diet for it to taste normal."

"Oh, I see."

"Yes."

The conversation came to a close and it seemed John was out of questions already and he did not need to ask anymore, nor did he really have a reason to. All the stereotypical questions had been answered, all the safety concerns had been answered even if not to the fullest, and John was comfortable still living with Sherlock without a problem whatsoever. The most he had to get used to was the mere fact that Sherlock could easily turn on a dime and kill him if he so chose. The mere thought nearly scared John to the core and he quickly banished the thought from his mind and tried to think about his full stomach and the long day at the clinic he had ahead of him.

"I, uh…I think I'll go to bed now," said John as he rose from his chair, "You'll be going to bed late again, then?"

Sherlock nodded and took a long sip of his blood, continuing to scroll down through John's blog and berate his posts both verbally and virtually. John shook his head as he climbed the stairs and locked himself away in his room where he would not be bothered the rest of the night. He needed this time alone to himself what with the hectic week of a quintuple homicide they'd just laid to rest; downtime was all he needed.

As he changed his clothes and tucked himself beneath his sheets in his pitch black room, he began to think and allow his mind to wander. He thought about his sister and her drinking problem, he thought about his mother and father and how he'd forgotten to call them over the weekend for their anniversary, and he thought about Sherlock. The way he seemed to move like a ghost, the way he seemed so comfortable with John, and even the way he seemed to move along in the mundane lifestyle without a hitch…except his want for blood; that was about it. These thoughts sometimes kept John awake at night, but tonight, he fell right asleep and was out before he could even think about how great of an impact this vampire, this _man_ had on him so soon.

Everything was black and a heavy scent of blood was pulling John towards an unknown object. As he was pulled forward, he found himself to be in the presence of danger, but what it was he could not see. It wasn't until he was thrown into a large room that he found light, though it was a dim red and seemed…to have life. John carefully lifted himself from the floor and saw exactly where the sickening stench of blood led to.

There over a young blond man's body stood a tall, lanky, pale man with eyes as red as the blood that stained his lips and chin. However it was the dark hair atop his head that struck John with the familiarity of the man and he sucked in a silent breath. John was the half-dead man laying beneath the dark-haired man…his best friend.

John shook his head in disbelief and tried to back up, but each move he made only forced him closer to Sherlock who was now bent over the other John, ready to drink the rest of his blood. John's heart was thundering in his ears and the other John was trying to not move at all, yet his eyes followed the trail of blood and his eyes met John's. His heart stopped and he broke contact to look up at the vampire whose eyes were now bearing down upon him.

"Well," he purred after a long moment, his eyes still locked on John, "what have we here? Another victim for my fangs to taste your blood…hm…delicious…"

John's heart was pounding in his chest and he fought to back up again, but he couldn't move. The vampire could smell his fear and slithered over the other John, and the moment his black cloak swept over the body, he was gone, and they were alone.

"I-I-I…" John stammered, but he was unable to make another sound, for Sherlock's long fingers where caressing his cheeks and their faces were inches apart, the smell of blood overwhelming his nostrils and almost making him sick.

"Hush now, don't be shy," Sherlock hummed as his fingernails traced over John's cheeks.

"Don't touch me," he hissed, but it didn't seem to do any good, for Sherlock took his face in his ice cold hands entirely and pulled him a little closer.

"I thought you were interested in this, John. It's written clear on your face. Always has been."

"Stop—"

"Oh no, no, no, dear John. I need to taste you."

"No you don't. You stay away from me, monster."

Sherlock looked as if John had struck him across the face and the hands that were once gentle on his face became tight and his nails were digging into his skin, surely cutting him. John couldn't cry out in pain, all he could do was weep and grab Sherlock's wrists to try and pry them off his face as tears fell down his cheeks. But it was no use; Sherlock's hold was far too strong and John was far too weak to pull him off. The icy hands around John's face became warm as the vampire leaned in closer to sniff his flesh, to taste the skin of his cheek, and to feel the pounding pulse in his neck.

"It's a wonder I haven't killed you yet," he purred against his neck, "You're so…delicious…"

The moment Sherlock's fangs dug into John's neck, he let out the loudest scream and he sat up straight in bed, his forehead damp with sweat and the scream fresh in his throat.

Sherlock was up the stairs in a matter of seconds and flipped on the light of John's room before going to his aid, glad to see he wasn't being murdered. However, the moment Sherlock went to John, the man backed up into the corner of his bed and tried to get away from him, though it seemed as if he was trying to climb up the wall and get out. John was terrified, his heart was pounding, and his hand was hiding his neck to keep it out of the vampire's view. But he continued to advance towards the cowering human even though he knew how scared he was of him.

"John," Sherlock said soothingly, "John it's me, Sherlock—"

"I know w-w-who you are," he stammered, "St-stay away from me!"

Sherlock raised a brow, but it did not stop him from moving forward to try to comfort John. The only thing he was armed with was his fists and even though they were not to be underestimated, Sherlock wouldn't be harmed by them.

"John, please," he said softly as he approached the end of the bed, John now about halfway up the wall, "It was just a nightmare. It's alright. Please listen to me. I won't hurt you, I promise. I have never done any harm to you and I will never do any harm to you. Drive a stake through my heart if I ever break that promise."

The doctor stared at him and slowly he let himself slide down the wall again, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock and not daring to let him out of his sight.

"Don't hurt me…don't hurt me," John mumbled over and over again as he closed his eyes, and Sherlock carefully approached him, sitting on his bed and slowly taking his hand in his own to press their palms together.

"It's alright," he said softly, "I'm here and I will not hurt you. I'm sorry you're afraid, but I promise you that whatever happened in your dream will not come true. Please believe me."

Slowly, John opened his eyes to rest on their hands pressed together and he was instantly calmed. He knew he was safe with Sherlock, he knew he would never do anything to harm him, and he knew that everything that he saw in his dream was just that: a dream. As long as he trusted Sherlock and Sherlock kept to his word, John would be safe. As long as Sherlock was around, John couldn't be harmed. As John let their hands fall, he was in wonder at how Sherlock's skin wasn't as icy as he had expected. It was a kind of ice that still held a hint of warmth in it as if blood still flowed beneath his pale white flesh.

"Thank you," John said softly and pulled his blankets back up to his chin to hide his faint blush from Sherlock. He didn't know why, but he didn't want to let Sherlock's hand go when he did, it felt too comforting for him to release it just yet. Yet there was something else seemingly hidden beneath it and he wished he hadn't let him touch his hand; a feeble wish, really, but the thought was quickly banished as he hid himself beneath the duvet.

"You're welcome," Sherlock said with a small smile and slowly rose from John's bed to go back downstairs to his room where he would spend the rest of the night lying wide awake. He kept his ears and eyes open in case The Woman came by to "check" on Sherlock and see if his human was still alive. His human…it was a strange thought, but Sherlock had grown attached to John in a very short amount of time. There was something about John that made him special, something that made him his best friend, and it would keep Sherlock up and wondering for quite some time.

By the time the morning sun rose, Sherlock had already showered, dressed, and prepared a small breakfast for John who stumbled into the kitchen around eleven in the morning.

"Good morning," Sherlock said as he sat across from the warm plate of bacon, eggs, and toast, "How do you feel?"

"Like hell," John mumbled and sat at his prepared place, immediately digging into the food and not caring if Sherlock had been the one to prepare it, "Couldn't really sleep after you left last night. The nightmare just worked me up, I suppose."

"Oh…I see. But you're a little better now, yes?"

John looked up at Sherlock beneath his lashes before returning his gaze to the delicious food.

"I will be after I eat. Do you have a case today?"

"Not yet, no. Lestrade has been a little quiet lately, but there may be something soon."

"Nothing you've caused, I'm sure."

"No, not at all. I'm not a killer, I'm a detective. There's a difference, John. And no, I would not kill them because I'm a vampire. I told you that already. It's been over a century since I've last killed a human."

By now John had gotten used to the casual talk about Sherlock's vampirism, though sometimes he would flinch at the gruesome tales Sherlock would tell him about the days when he worked in a butcher's shop to try and keep a smooth cover and still get blood, so it wasn't too terrible to hear talk like that first thing in the morning.

"I know you've told me," said John as he finished up his breakfast and took his plate to the sink, "Thanks for breakfast, by the way. It was good. I didn't know you could cook."

"I've had plenty of time to learn, so I figured 'why not?' and voila."

"You've had time to learn a lot of things. Take up anything else?"

"No, actually. I learned how to play the violin in my youth. Then I figured I might as well learn to cook to lure—"

John gave Sherlock a look and he snapped his mouth shut immediately, averting his eyes to the wall behind John's shoulder as a silent apology for going a bit too far.

"What did you learn in your youth?" Sherlock asked, a quick and comfortable subject change, "Surely years in primary school and an academy taught you some sort of talent outside being a doctor."

An insult? Hell if he knew, but he didn't take it as such if it was, and he answered with a shrug, "I learned clarinet in school. I can't play, but I still learned."

Sherlock chuckled and rose from his seat to throw away his juice box and get out his violin to play away the rainy day. It would be a long day for the both of them, for neither of them knew that they were being watched by more than one vampire; neither of them knew that they were being watched by Sherlock's brother's men in case he chose to turn on his mortal friend; neither of them knew that something was happening to them and that something had the potential to get them both killed; neither of them knew that Sherlock Holmes had begun to let himself fall victim to human error.


	7. Chapter 7

Unfortunately since John's nightmare, he'd kept himself at a comfortable distance from Sherlock which meant he would try to keep himself at the other side of the room unless necessary. Sherlock would be lying if he said he wasn't offended by the other man's reaction to his nightmare, but he would also be lying if he said he had no idea why he would even consider doing what he was doing to keep himself safe. It was a natural instinct to keep oneself safe from predators, especially after a terrifying ordeal constructed in the sleeping depths of one's mind, but he only wished John would talk to him or look at him like he used to and not be afraid.

As if to answer his silent pleas, one evening John came downstairs after dinner and sat across from Sherlock at the table, his eyes on the vampire's pale hands around his mug of tea. The doctor was silent, but there was clearly something on his mind and that something bothered Sherlock more than a fly buzzing around a fluorescent light or Anderson existing. John's mind was swimming with everything he had thought to say and it was something he was having trouble coming up with and forcing himself to say. He took a deep breath and looked up at Sherlock, but the moment his eyes met the vampire's brilliant blue ones, he had no idea what he was talking about or what he was going to say.

"What's on your mind, John?" Sherlock asked quietly when he realized he wasn't going to utter a word.

John didn't answer immediately, but when he finally mustered up the courage to say it, he hardly voiced his words, "I think I need to move—"

However, he did not get to finish, for John's mouth was covered in a matter of seconds as Sherlock was suddenly behind him and pulling him out of his chair as silent as a mouse. John tried to open his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock silenced him with a firm grip on his jaw. That was when he heard the creaking of the floorboards upstairs and the voices coming from John's bedroom.

"They're here," Sherlock whispered, but his voice was loud enough to stop the footsteps upstairs, and suddenly John was dragged back into Sherlock's bedroom rather forcefully. It would be a miracle if they didn't find him by the thudding of his pounding heart.

The door had hardly been closed before the detective had him hiding in the corner while someone clawed at the door and tried to force the door open. John's heart was roaring in his ears as he watched Sherlock pull his wardrobe in front of the door and went over to him and handed him something wooden and something metal and cold. Oh. Of course.

"Stay here and stay silent," Sherlock warned him, "Don't make a sound and if I tell you to run, you run. Listening to me is key. Understand?"

John nodded, already complying (as if he could do anything else), and held the silver blade and stake close to his chest. All he needed now was an iron cross and holy water. He watched as Sherlock adjusted the gloves he'd put on somewhere between the kitchen and the bedroom and shrank back further into the corner. The wardrobe was beginning to move and Sherlock was trying to keep the door closed by pushing all his weight against it, but the wardrobe was growing weaker and weaker until, finally, it broke nearly into splinters and Sherlock was shoved backwards as four vampires entered the room. John couldn't move and he couldn't breathe.

Two vampires jumped onto Sherlock immediately, the sound of their fists connecting with the detective's granite skin making John's stomach churn. He just wished his heart would stop pounding. John tried to hide himself in his little corner more, but just one wrong move nudged the bedside table. No faster than the leg had scraped on the floor were the vampires over the bed and on top of John, and he was pulled off the ground in a flash, his weapons falling to the floor as they pinned him up against the wall by his neck. He grabbed at their hands but found himself at a disadvantage with their incredible strength and even more at a disadvantage now that he could hardly breathe.

"Sh-Sherlo—," John stammered, but his throat was constricted more by the firm hand of the blond vampire standing before him and his voice was cut off.

"Drop him!"

The two vampires looked at Sherlock and one tried to advance on him, however the detective quickly slid under her and let her throw herself into the wall. _New dog; of course_, thought Sherlock as he moved closer and stood behind the vampire with his hand tight around John's neck, ready to kill him.

"Let. Him. Go," he commanded as another blade slipped out of his sleeve, but the vampire didn't seem to want to listen, for his eyes were fixed on something on John. As John finally got around to looking at his eyes, he noticed how red his irises were. He recalled something that Stamford told him about how newborn vampires' eyes remained the color of their blood until they were trained and they went back to normal. However these eyes seemed different…they were hungry, and unfortunately began to match the pair behind him. The heavy scent of blood filled John's nostrils and it was then that he felt a burning sensation on his neck and on his arm and leg.

Oh no.

Sherlock's eyes locked onto the doctor's bleeding limbs, the blade dropped, and he began to fight himself to keep control and not kill his best friend. Sherlock's fangs were already protruding from his gums and he could feel the venom washing over his teeth. _No, no stop!_ Sherlock thought to himself and shook his head in desperation. He could not kill him. He _would not _kill him. _He would not kill John Watson_.

Now fear was spreading through John's veins and he was losing air and losing it fast. As the blood began to trickle over the vampire's hand and a burning sensation was overcoming every open gash, he let out the loudest scream he could manage. That was enough to snap Sherlock out of his hungry trance.

It happened entirely too fast. He was dropped onto the ground and the two vampires were in a scrap. There were snarls and growls and the sound of ripping cloth…or something, and then nothing but the yelp of an animal and the shuffle of the leaves outside as the other vampire ran. John was trying his hardest to cover his wounds and save himself from the hunger of his best friend. He never wanted to fall victim to him and he never wanted to be the reason Sherlock would fall back into his old habits. Yet here he was bleeding all over his bedroom floor and he was trapped in a corner as Sherlock crawled around the end of the bed to stare directly at him, his vibrant red eyes bearing into his own.

"Sherlock," he said quietly as he tried to force himself back into the corner, "Sherlock listen to me. Please…p-please...please, just let me get to the bathroom—"

"Stop talking," Sherlock commanded, though his voice was a low growl that shook John to the core. He nodded feebly.

"Please don't hurt me…don't hurt me," John begged and closed his eyes, ready for whatever happened. The vampire raised his hand as if he was going to keep moving forward, but the moment John spoke and let out a small whimper of fear, Sherlock was snapped out of his hunt and he scrambled for the door. He couldn't harm John, he promised him he wouldn't. He refused to become the monster in John's nightmare.

Sherlock made it into the kitchen and dug through the fridge to find one of the blood bags he kept stashed for nights that he was…a little more unstable. The moment he got his hands on it he bit into it and drained the bag in a matter of seconds, blood staining his lips and now his hands. It wasn't as warm as he wanted, but it would have to do. It was a small step towards protecting John, and it would have to be enough for now.

"John?" he called, not daring to approach the other man or even go near his bedroom for both their sakes, "John are you alright? Answer me, please."

Sherlock's voice worked through the fog in John's ears and he slowly pulled himself to his feet, moving towards the door still in fear of the vampire that waiting at the end of the hall. He was terrified of the beast that was so close to killing him. He was terrified of everything that had just happened. He was terrified because Sherlock promised he would be safe. _He promised_.

"St-stay where you are," John commanded as he inched out of the room, his hand desperately groping the wall for a light switch and the handle to the bathroom door.

"John, please listen to me—"

"Why sh-should I?"

"Because I'm your best friend."

"No, you were going to _kill _me!"

"No, I wasn't, I…John, that wasn't me. I'm sorry."

John stared at the other, his hand on the bathroom door, and he felt the last of his fearful tears slide down his cheeks.

"Don't come near me until I get these fixed," the doctor commanded and disappeared into the bathroom.

The moment the door closed, Sherlock turned and threw his fist into the wall, knocking a decent sized hole into it. It would be added to the rent, but he didn't care; all he cared about was the man he had almost killed who was now cowering in the bathroom, his heart pounding by the smell of it. Sherlock took a deep, calming breath and slowly walked towards his room where the smell of blood was most prominent. He knew he had a few cuts on his cheeks from the rings the vampire wore, but they would heal by morning, and he knew nothing compared to the fear and the hurt that was felt by John Watson at that very moment.

"He promised…he promised," John muttered to himself over and over again as he began to clean up his wounds with his shirt and stitch them closed, his dog tags shimmering in the light from the vanity, "Now that a bunch of bloody vampires show up, he decides to become one of them…an animal…I should've known…I should've known…"

But he knew he was being stupid and he knew he was making things up so he had a reason to be angry, but all he was, was terrified. His best friend nearly lost control of himself and cost John his life, and… John shook his head and squeezed his eyes closed.

"He also saved my life," he muttered and cut the thread with his teeth as he finished bandaging his arm and leg (which wasn't as bad as he thought) and made sure his neck was covered and bandaged before he decided to actually leave the bathroom. His heart was pounding as he left the room, but he stayed at a safe distance from Sherlock, still fearful of him.

"Is…is everything alright?" Sherlock asked and kept his place in the kitchen beside the refrigerator.

"Yes," John answered, his voice sharp, "Are you…are you okay?"

Sherlock looked over himself and quickly folded his hands behind his back, nodding, and said, "Yes, I'm fine. I'm so sorry, John. I didn't know—"

"Stop—"

"Can you just let me explain for once?!"

John stared at Sherlock, but eventually gave him a single nod and waited to hear his explanation.

"I didn't know they would come," he began, "I didn't know they were watching us. Well, those four I didn't know but—let me finish! Only one woman is watching us and she is the woman that I was changed for in order to mate with. I never felt an attraction to her no matter how clever she was…_is_. She wants me to return to their coven, but I refuse to do so. I can't go back to that lifestyle. Lestrade has been kind enough to keep me safe and in the dark with this condition and keeping me out of trouble. Those four vampires, two were newborns and only a little over a year old. They are very hard to tame, but if you're in the right rank, they take orders as long as they get rewards. I was surprised when they left."

"Was the one who nearly killed me a newborn?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No. He's older than I am. He fought in the Eighty Years' War, if that gives you an idea of his age. He's a vampire who is clever, ruthless, and very much like the man who changed him except he…he cares more than…nevermind. He will be back I'm sure of it, but not for good reason. John, this time we were lucky you got out alive and we are both still here. I don't know what they're planning but I do know it's not good. I need you to trust me and please stay here. Don't move out. If you do, they will kill you and I cannot let that happen. You have to trust me, John."

"And why should I?"

It nearly broke Sherlock to hear John say that, even if they have only been living together for four months; four of the most amazing months of his entire existence.

"Because I need you. If you don't trust me, it could kill us both. Please…please, John."

John looked at him for a moment, his arms crossed, and took a deep breath as he raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's.

"All my life I never believed in supernatural stories," he said softly and started to walk towards Sherlock, "yet here I am living in a flat with a vampire who doesn't know how to clean himself up after a 'meal'. You haven't shown any aggressiveness towards me before tonight, but that was because that vampire made me bleed. I'm sorry for being angry with you, you couldn't control yourself and I understand that. Of course I trust you."

Sherlock smiled and could have almost hugged John, but as he said, he didn't know how to clean up after himself.

"Thank you, John," said Sherlock, and he promptly went to clean himself up and not make another mess.

It was good that John trusted him and it was good that Sherlock hadn't lost it entirely just because of his monstrosity, and now all they had to do was figure out how to protect themselves further from the coven that he once belonged to. Of course, the first thing to do once one has regained another's trust is to lie to them.


End file.
